


thoughts unlike

by cursinginenochian



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Bad Things Happen To Cecil, Brainwashing, Carlos is a Good Boyfriend, Cecil is Mostly Human, Freaked Out Carlos, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Ice Cream, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Night Vale Dog Park, Open Ending, Pre-Relationship, Re-Education, Scientist Carlos (Welcome to Night Vale), Strexcorp, Strexcorp is Evil, Typical Night Vale Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-08-30
Packaged: 2018-09-18 01:16:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9358085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cursinginenochian/pseuds/cursinginenochian
Summary: He shouldn’t have written about the fire, about the anonymous notes posted on the park’s gates, but he was a reporter. It was his job to report, the reason for his very existence. The scarlet envelope sitting unopened on his desk, however, said otherwise.ORCecil is in trouble with Station Managment (again).





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

It always began like this: A curl in his stomach, like someone was using his intestines to learn a french braid -- only, what was meant to become a mere tangle or two became a sudden mess of knots tied tightly by inexperienced hands. Cecil knew he slipped up big time. He’d been reciting an editorial he scratched onto a stray piece of paper nights before, despite knowing good and well that writing in itself was prohibited unless previously government mandated. He’d sat on it for weeks, nothing more but a scrawl of haphazardly written notes he’d taken one night, if only to have proof in what he’d seen. 

 

_ Shadow. _

 

_ Claw. _

_   
_ _ Gasoline.  _

 

_ A note pinned to the fifth link of the lower section of the fence. “MORE”.  _

 

_ A voice, not unlike his own.  _

 

It was like a morbid shopping list, but it was all he’d been able to string together in his haste. He had a dream, premonitional enough to wake him up drenched in sweat afterwards. Sometimes, if Cecil concentrated, he could recollect the scene without help from the list. There had been an arson at the waterfront, a mysterious letter left at the dog park. 

 

The dog park.  _ Of course. _

 

Cecil should’ve known from the second the dog park came into play -- on which most definitely  _ did not exist,  _ in the same way the waterfront never was, even though he could remember walking its boardwalk, tasting the sandy winds with every breath as he stood at its pier. He couldn’t help knowing, though. The memories popped up in his mind like a blurb from a cheesy Sunday paper cartoon. Everyone knew cheesy Sunday paper cartoons had been banned from all forms of the press since 2007. 

 

_ Idiot _ . 

 

He shouldn’t have written about the fire, about the anonymous notes posted on the park’s gates, but he was a reporter. It was his job to report, the reason for his very existence. The scarlet envelope sitting unopened on his desk, however, said otherwise. 

 

With a shaking hand, Cecil did the only thing he could think to do, short of cowering under his desk and hoping for the best whilst begging blindly for forgiveness. The notice glared menacingly from its place on the desktop, next to the shiny silver microphone stationed nearby. It only took a moment bring up the expansive contact list stored on his clunky, outdated mobile. 

 

As expected, he was answered with the monotonous tone of automated voicemail. Understandable, Cecil thought, it was already past midnight. Carlos was busy at at his lab until one, latest, but lately he’d taken late hours to research one oddity of Night Vale or another. . . Cecil hadn’t caught on to specifics. 

 

Not to say he didn’t pay attention to he and Carlos’ conversations. If anything, it could be safer to say the radio spokesperson hung onto every syllable that slipped out of the scientist’s perfect lips. He simply didn’t understand Carlos’ fascination with Night Vale’s normalities, particularly those regarding the sky. 

 

“Why’s there never a sunrise around here?” he remembers Carlos inquiring over coffee during his earlier months in town. “It’s always so  _ dark _ .”

 

Cecil hadn’t known how to answer, of course. Sure, the sun rose and fell, as it did every day, but how its passing related to the shade or hue of the sky was completely lost to him.

 

The voicemail tone sounded loudly in his ear, and Cecil tried to suppress a shiver. He needed to get this message through, Station Management could do anything they’d like to him afterwards. “Carlos,” he hissed into the mouthpiece as the door creaked open, “Carlos, I hate to be a bother, but I need your help.” 

  
  


At 1:36am, a Tuesday night like any other, Carlos slipped into his car after a long, fruitless day of work and checked his phone before twisting on the ignition. He’d missed Cecil’s show again, the radio at the lab finally shorted out a few weeks ago after being played during one thunderstorm too many, and was surprised to see the man’s name amongst the few notifications neatly lining his lockscreen. 

 

**One (1) Missed Call: Cecil Palmer**

 

His finger hovered over the call icon. Carlos wasn’t sure what they were yet, if he was honest with himself. Sure, they’d gone out for coffee a few times and he may or may not have called Cecil to conversate outside of professional business, but the last time he’d attempted to be romantic was the day before Valentine’s Day. . . to sum it up, it hadn’t gone well and Carlos was fortunate enough to learn a few things about Night Vale’s celebratory habits to prevent him from making the same mistake next year.

 

Cecil had left a voicemail too. 

 

It was certainly odd, Carlos thought, since he himself hadn't bothered leaving messages since texting came into play, but out of all oddities Night Vale seemed to adopt, this wasn't one the scientist was going to risk questioning. A strange, staticky hum sounded after the tone, so loudly that Carlos fought the urge to bring the phone away from his ear. 

 

_ I hate to be a bother, but I need your help.  _ The broadcaster’s shook uncharacteristically with fear, his words whispered tightly.  _ I've disclosed certain information today. . . mistake. . . They won't stand for me to loiter at the parking lot again. . .  _ His voice carried in and out on waves of white noise. 

 

While the message was lost to static again, Carlos threw his old car into drive, speeding towards the station without a second thought. 

 

_ I'm sorry, I can't do this alone, Carlos.  _ Cecil's voice broke as the message slipped into static once more. The noise became so overbearing that Carlos had no choice but to close out of the voicemail. He brought his phone down from his ear in defeat.  

 

He reached the radio station in less than thirty minutes, grateful for the first time in his memory that Night Vale’s road signs were obliterated, and with them, speed limits. The night was quiet, and the stations windows were darkened and unchanging, and despite his worries, it wasn't hard for sleep to fall on the weary scientist as he waited in his car, gaze intent on the large double doors of the building’s entrance. 

 

_ Thunk.  _

 

Carlos awoke with a jolt as the front doors slammed, accompanied with a deep shout and the unmistakable sound of flesh skidding across asphalt. With a bleary gaze, he squinted against the light of the phone to check the time on his phone --  _ 3:15am.  _ Hands against the windshield, he then peered out in hopes of seeing Cecil. 

 

The broadcaster was only a shape of darkness against the gritty parking lot, but as he struggled to pull himself up from where he'd been tossed out so carelessly, with doors slammed tightly behind him, it became apparent the Cecil was anything but okay. A bloodied scrape against his cheek seeped sluggishly, no doubt a product of being tossed onto the street face first. His body shook with tremors of exhaustion and wavered listlessly once he came to his feet. 

 

Carlos cursed and pulled himself out of the car without a moment's hesitation. The rubber soles of his sneakers slapped against the pavement, created echoes that sounded loudly against the haunted stillness of Night Vale. “Cecil,” he gasped, steadying him as soon as he regained his own footing. 

 

Cecil peered groggily at the scientist in front of him, and Carlos braced himself once the other man wavered once more, pressing a shaking hand against his lab coat. His other hand was sticky and taunt, holding what looked like an  _ ice cream cone _ , the scientist noted with disbelief. The treat was melting. Vanilla ice cream splattered wetly on the ground as it dripped from in between Cecil’s shaking fingers. Most of it was smeared against the lot’s dirty ground from when he'd fallen. 

 

“What did they do to you?” Carlos whispered. He held Cecil steady by his waist as he took note of the prong-like holes punctured into his temples. They too bled thickly and left three thin trails of dark blood running down his head. 

 

“Re-education,” Cecil smiled weakly. He pressed his face against Carlos’ lab coat with a small sigh. The gesture left a smear of brownish blood on the breast of the otherwise pristine jacket, but Carlos couldn't bring himself to care. With a steady hand, he slowly led the dazed man to the passenger side of his car. 

 

Once they were both in safely, Carlos wasted no time in putting his car into drive. He wasn't going to spend another second at this station tonight, especially not with Cecil in tow. 

 

“So, you called me,” Carlos said finally, trying to put together all that's happened already. “And I’m  _ glad _ , Cecil,” he added when the other man’s face crumbled in distaste. “I'm glad you called me.” 

 

Cecil opened his mouth before closing it again, blinking absently. “Had to get home,” he murmured, “Can't remember sometimes.”

 

“How to get home?” Carlos asked, his throat constricted, tight with fear. 

 

“Anything.” Streetlights illuminated his pale, beaten face every few moments. It was still again, too early for anything but the hooded figures to be out, and they were always quiet, like shadows slipping away after a light flickers on. The ice cream cone was still curled tightly in his hand. 

 

Carlos tried not to think about how the dairy will stain the car's seat later, or how the passenger side would smell like sour milk for weeks. The far away haze in Cecil's eyes drove away such petty, trivial thoughts. “Can you remember what direction your house is from here?” Carlos then asked cautiously. He didn't know where he was going, having never actually gone to Cecil's place before, and the thought of meandering around town this early doesn't sit well with him. “We're only a few blocks from the station.”

 

Cecil straightened himself with a grunt and peered out of the passenger side window, squinting all the while. 

 

“Where're your glasses, Ceece?” 

 

His hand ghosted over his eyes then, like he hadn't noticed their absence before. “Hm,” he wondered, “At the station, maybe, or home?” The latter was probably more likely, since Carlo never saw the other man without the thick rimmed frames perched upon his nose. 

 

He pulled over on the side of the road when the little bit of color drained from Cecil's already pale, more than a little concerned when the broadcaster slumped into the window, glasses forgotten. 

 

“I don't know where we are,” Cecil finally said with a frustrated whine. He pressed the pad of his thumb to the side of his head and winced when he touched the puncture wounds by mistake. “There was something by my apartment,  _ something _ . I just can't remember, Carlos, it must've slipped my mind.” His words were slightly hysterical and the scientist could barely stand to guess what Station Management had done to make the usually clever Cecil fall short. 

 

“It's okay,” Carlos reassured, “we can hang out at my place.”

 

“Oh, Carlos. Sweet, kind Carlos,” Cecil hummed against the cool glass of the window. His nose had started bleeding and droplets of blood dripped off from his face onto the sickly sweet ice cream. Blood swirled within the dirtied cone, turning the dessert an odd shade of grayish pink with every passing second. Carlos was going to be sick. 

 

“Hey, really, it's fine. Could we ditch the ice cream, though?” He pointed to the window crank stationed by Cecil's side and resisted the sudden urge to throw up when the man raised an eyebrow like he'd only then realized it was there and took a quick lap at the foul ice cream with the tip of his tongue. 

 

“It's vital towards my recovery,” Cecil mumbled between nibbles of muddied, soggy sugar cone. It became clear that Cecil wasn't exactly  _ present _ , if Carlos’ original hypothesis could still be applied to this situation. 

 

Not for the first time that night, he was more than glad he'd checked his notifications before going to bed. Wandering around Night Vale alone wasn't a great idea, from what he'd gathered, especially not while bleeding profusely with next to no sense of direction. 

 

Always one to experiment,  Carlos decided to take another approach. “Why ice cream, anyway?”

 

“Hm?”

 

“They just, uh,  _ re-educated  _ you,” Carlos stuttered.  _ Tortured you _ , he wanted to say, but the words wouldn't dare escape his lips. “Why would they give you ice cream afterwards?”

 

“Oh, that. Well, everyone needs a reward for complying, I suppose,” Cecil sighed, “And they've been giving out ice cream since the Fire of ‘76. A tragedy it had been; five hundred civilians dead, the whole town was a crying mess. When a child cries, you distract them. Adults are all the same, especially when you've been an adult your entire life, with no way out of your merciless existence. So, the Secret Police were kind enough to hand out ice creams to the mourners, dead mice to the lactose intolerant.” He snickered, like he told some hilarious joke. “Everyone perks up after ice cream, it's scientific fact.” 

 

Despite his usually unbreakable faith in science, Carlos thought otherwise.

 

It only took twenty minutes to head home, but those minutes stretched endlessly every time Cecil would begin trembling once more, fingertips pressed against his temples and blood dripping sluggishly. Thankfully, Carlos convinced him to toss the cone out of the window before they'd made it back, despite his complaints of littering the streets of  _ such a proud and wondrous community.  _ The fondness held in Cecil's voice for a town that made him bleed swirled bitterly in Carlos’ chest, but it was better to let him have his way when Night Vale was concerned. 

 

“It's biodegradable, Ceece. Doesn't count as litter,” Carlos sighed, and so the abomination of a dessert slapped wetly onto the street as they sped away from the station. 

 

Silence made itself comfortable until they arrived at the place Carlos was staying. The blank spots in his memory hampered Cecil to no end. He wasn't foolish, the last few hours might have been blurring together into an incomprehensible mess of  _ buzzing, humming, screens, static, bleeding, a choking,  _ and, most prominent of all,  _ Carlos _ , but Cecil knew what he had done; he'd been punished once again. He recognized the holes in his memory as clearly as he did the tackiness in his palm where he'd gripped the ice cream like a vice or the unexplainable warmth of a car. In comparison to twitching and trembling in the parking lot until a wayward intern helped him home or he gathered his bearings enough to do so for himself, being under perfectly imperfect Carlos’ care was heavenly, if only a little embarrassing. However fortunate Cecil could recognize being, knowing he'd simply  _ forgotten  _ something very important nagged the reporter at heart. 

 

“Wait--” he gasped when Carlos’ hands were suddenly upon him. A flare of panic surged through his head, but then dissipated once he realized the scientist was only helping him out of the vehicle. “I can't remember, Carlos. Help me remember,” he begged. 

 

Voice taunt with hurt, Carlos shook his head. “There's a reason they made you forget, Ceece,” the scientist said quietly, “Please don't push it, not now.”

 

“Claws,” he muttered against the pounding pressure in his head, “and  _ gasoline _ .” 

 

The reaction was nearly instant. A pang to his ribcage, like a surge of electricity. Blood dropped from his nostril once more and puddled in his lap. His already blurry vision swam. 

 

“ _ Cecil!” _

  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

For the next thirty seconds, the only thing Carlos could truly comprehend was the unmistakable, guttural _squelch_ of vomit splattering against pavement. He'd only heard the stomach turning sound twice in his life before that night: when he and his fellow colleagues overdid it on cheap spirits the night after institutional graduation, and when he'd came down with a stomach bug some impossible amount of years before that. Both weren't exactly the fondest memories in the world, mostly because there was a certain smell associated with vomiting that he didn't want to be within a five mile radius of, scientist or not.

For half a moment, he found himself sighing in relief; at least he managed to get Cecil out of the car before he hurled. The feeling was short lived.

The unsteady man in Carlos’ arms slumped into his chest once the heaving was cut short by a haunting moan. “ _More_ ,” Cecil coughed, the word muffled against the fabric of Carlos’ jacket. “Note, said it wants more.”

Panic and paranoia ran rampant through Carlos’ mind in dizzying amounts. “What're you _talking_ about?” he hissed, bringing the other man's bloodied face to his eyes.

Their gazes met, if only for a small amount of time, and Cecil's face crumpled once more at the sight of the worried lines creasing Carlos’s beautiful forehead.

“I-I wrote,” Cecil gaped, and with a small jolt that ran down his spine like a shock of electricity, _dizzying, hissing and sharp_ , his eyes clenched shut in pain. “I wrote a note,” he repeated weakly, “to report to Night Vale-- to _you_.”

“Shush,” Carlos begged, pulling him up and against his side. The night was warmer than most, but the temperature was always likely to change at whim in this strange desert community. “Just let this be. Just this once, Cecil.”

He nodded weakly into the crook of his scientist’s neck and it was enough, for that moment.

* * *

Cecil slept for three hours. Three restless, painstakingly long hours that Carlos wished lasted longer, despite the fearful twist his stomach made whenever Cecil stilled for a few moments too long and his breaths became shallow.

He was fine. _Would_ be fine, Carlos corrected himself. To think, he'd thought he'd get to sleep in this morning. That in itself was impossible. He wouldn't be sleeping tonight, not with the Secret Police looming over them as frequent offenders are treated -- and that's what Cecil was, wasn't it? A frequent offender.

The words put a bad taste in Carlos’s mouth.

At some unimaginable hour of the early morning, Cecil woke with a shuddering gasp, like a thing who'd been held in water until what may have been their last moment of life.

“Ask no questions, receive no answers,” he whispered hoarsely, reaching blindly for Carlos, who crept carefully from his place in the armchair across from the small love seat Cecil lied upon.

And then, with a desperate grab at his own hair, he smiled. Nothing outrageous of course, but also nothing like the easy expression the radio host wore whenever Carlos and he spoke. No, this was something different. His eyes, normally shining with easy curiosity, were dull and seemingly sightless -- Cecil looked through the worried scientist.

“Cecil?” Carlos’ voice shook as he reached to touch the other man’s cheek, only to find that he was cold, colder than anything he'd felt since coming to this desert. “Cecil, please, tell me what's going on.”

Then his eyes regained clarity, like a veil being lifted. Where blankness had lied resided a look of pure terror that send Carlos’ heart clamoring up his throat. He still smiled that same uneasy, unfeeling smile. “There is a God, Carlos,” Cecil said softly. The air around them still reeked of bile. “And they are smiling.”

Carlos snatched his hand away.

As soon as the words escaped his lips, Cecil's hands shot up to his mouth, gripping his face tightly with white knuckled fingers. A sob shook out of him, forceful and cruel enough to bend his frame, but no tears were shed. Almost as if waking from a dream, Carlos snapped back into action, trying to ignore the shiver of his intuition telling him that something was very, _very_ wrong.

After a moment of hesitation -- maybe he was breaking some boundary, a line was being crossed -- he held Cecil by the shoulders and pulled him close. “Listen to me,” he said lowly, “I don't know what they did to you but you must _fight it._ ”

An almost hysterical whine escaped the Voice’s lips as he shook his head. “They plugged me in,” he whimpered, fingers twisting towards his temples. “I can't get these images out of my head. I just wanted to know.”

I can relate, Carlos thought drily.

_Something was buzzing in Cecil's ear, like the flight of a fly or the hums of the reborn_.

“There was a fire, a creature that shed light on the park, the dog park, it exists, it--” Cecil's usually sonorous voice broke and he choked back a scream as the too bright lights strobed against his eyelids.

“That's not what I meant, Ceece, _stop_ ,” Carlos cried, but he pushed on.

_They were picking through his brain, and while that in itself wasn't unusual, the manner in which they operated was._

“And, and, and management was different, not as cold and ruthless as they once were. They told me they _care_.”

_Management didn't talk. They hissed and spit and growled and screamed, but did not utter one human-like sound that even somewhat resembled speech. Of all of the unnumbered things which Cecil knew, this was most prominent._

“It wasn't management,” he realized, shouting over the laughter echoing through the barely lit room.

_Management didn't laugh_.

Cecil gaped with horrified realization. “W-Who…” he started, then blinked, as if to clear his vision. “ _Who was in my head_?”

**Author's Note:**

> comments are always appreciated!  
> tumblr: cursinginenochian


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